


Enjolras Remembers Enjolras

by ecrituredelafangirl



Series: Remember Verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Sex, Enjolras finds out first, M/M, Reincarnation, Smut, and somewhere in all this Enjolras and Grantaire fall deeply and passionately in love, blowjob, sex in the last chapter, then Combeferre explains things, then Grantaire remembers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredelafangirl/pseuds/ecrituredelafangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also known as the fic where Enjolras teaches about the June Rebellion. Before getting a splitting headache that only lets up when Grantaire is touching him. And, of course, Combeferre knows why this is. And also says that, if it's making Enjolras more comfortable, why shouldn't he hold Grantaire's hand all of the time? As long as Grantaire's cool with it (he's a little hesitant at first, but anything to make Enjolras feel better) they might as well. </p><p>And of course, holding hands for comfort requires you to get to know someone. And the side effects of getting to know this someone just happen to be falling deeply in love and having passionate sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enjolras Feels Drunk on Memories (and Grantaire is Utterly Bewildered)

Class started promptly at 2:45 P.M. So, of course, he arrived promptly at 2:30, because this was the class he had most enjoyed in the entirety of his academic life. 

He had a friend (yes, he supposed they were _friends_ , even if all the man ever did was drink and annoy the hell out of him) who would propose that such punctuality was unnecessary, that it didn’t matter. That being early to a class mattered in no way, since the class most likely wasn’t going to teach anything, wasn’t going to mean anything. This friend thought that _nothing_ really meant anything, and that troubled Enjolras deeply. Sometimes he thought about it – thought too much about it, really – but sometimes he just couldn’t be bothered.

Today he had other things on his mind. His favorite class, a European History course taught by the most spectacular professor on campus, Professor LaMarque, was at 2:45. Yes, he had other things to think about. 

The June Rebellion. He had come across it while doing some extra-curricular research in high school. Since then, he had made it his mission to learn every single detail he could about it. He almost had. 

But LaMarque was a treasure trove of French knowledge. He had studied at Paris 1 when it had first opened and, in recent years, had furthered their social sciences department until it ranked in the top 50 of the world. He also knew more about the French Revolution, and the years that followed, than anyone Enjolras had ever met. 

He revered the man, if he was honest, and he liked to show up several minutes early to class so that he could converse with him. And today, being the day he had waited all semester for, Enjolras arrived even earlier than normal. 

He spent the minutes leading up to class conversing easily with his professor (how anyone found the man stuffy, he had no idea) and then the next hour of class taking attentive notes. And then suddenly, he started to feel…off.

It wasn’t truly something wrong with him physically (he actually felt even better than normal), but there was just something about the air suddenly that was charged – something that made him rub at his eyes for a second and take a deep breath. Something that made him listen harder. Something that made him realize that the words he was hearing were _wrong_.

And then Enjolras was on his feet. 

Yes, he had been studying the event for years now, knew more obscure facts about the June Rebellion of 1832 than Combeferre knew about moths. But that wasn’t what was compelling him now. There was something deep within him – a knowledge so ingrained that it left him breathless, with the taste of gunpowder on his tongue and the weight of a small army on his shoulders. _They had been his men, his friends, and he had watched them die for their shared ideals in the cruelest way and it had been painful and it was still painful and he just loved them all so much he wished he could take it all back, but was also glad he couldn’t._

And with that whisper in his skull he interrupted the class. And he set it to rights. 

He had no idea where the words came from or even what they were. But he was speaking quickly and passionately and every eye in the classroom was trained on him and he _couldn’t stop_. This was important. 

It took him almost thirty minutes, but then the narrative was spilt and his soul was poured out. And suddenly he couldn’t remember any of it. A blank page in his mind, like nothing had happened. Like something had taken over his brain and used it, wrung it dry, before leaving him out in the open and vulnerable to the prying eyes of an entire classroom. 

He found himself staggering as pain flashed white-hot through his skull. 

“Enjolras?” LaMarque had made it nearly to where he was sitting. “Enjolras, are you okay?” His gaze was imploring, deeply caring, and Enjolras forced something of a smile, hoping to put him at ease. 

“I-I don’t feel very well,” he managed. Then he began to gather his things. 

“Wait, Enjolras, you need – the infirmary. Montparnasse, will you –”

“No!” Enjolras cut across LaMarque’s question. And his professor looked up, surprised. “Just-I…” And another flash of pain cracked his skull and he wanted to throw up. “Excuse me,” he managed, before rushing out of the room.

He was almost sprinting when he hit the hallway, as he was suddenly hit with the absolutely blood-curdling need to be outside – to be in the open, in the rain, in the air. He needed to be out of the confines of these walls. He needed it sorely and practically bashed into the doors on his way out because of that. And then he was in the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead and everything ceased. He sighed. 

And then another flash of pain slammed into him and he nearly groaned out loud. 

“Enjolras?” And the voice made it worse, causing the pain to increase tenfold. 

_“Do you permit it?” The words rang in his ears like music, almost sounding out the “Vive la Republique!” that this man had shouted previously. This man, who was so much more than a worthless drunk – this man in whose eyes he finally saw what he had been looking for all along – belief. And he had found himself smiling (he couldn’t help it, he finally saw him, this man, in his entirety, and he was something to be smiled at) and taking his offered hand. He pressed it with his own – a slight pressure. And then there was an awful burning in his chest and he remembered no more._

“Enjolras?! What the fuck?” and there was a hand on his back as he dry heaved into the grass. And suddenly the pain stopped and he found himself leaning ever so slightly into the touch. 

“Grantaire,” he found the name spring to his lips without the slightest thought. And then he looked up and found the man staring at him, obviously concerned. 

“Enjolras,” he said lowly, and the rain was making his curls stick to his skin – against his neck, his temples. The rain made his hair black as night and Enjolras was struck with the sudden desire to thread his hands through it and pull him close. And then Enjolras pulled back, frightened by the force of that singular want. “Enjolras, are you okay?” 

And Enjolras shook his head slowly, then rasped out something of a shout when Grantaire removed his hand from his back. He grabbed at the hand and pulled him back. “Don’t do that,” he demanded, surprised by how near a growl his voice actually sounded. 

Grantaire watched him, seemingly perplexed for a moment. “Can I call Combeferre?” he asked slowly, almost warily. And something akin to anger flashed in Enjolras.

“No,” he said, too quickly. Grantaire was practically gaping at him. There had never been a time when Enjolras denied Combeferre. But suddenly, he was gripped with the need to be alone. With Grantaire. “No. I believe you are perfectly capable of taking me back to my apartment.” 

It was a nice recovery, but Grantaire was still staring at him strangely. “You need…the infirmary. I’m not-”

“Grantaire, I’m fine,” he sighed, exasperated. And Grantaire, his mouth twisted to the side, obviously dissatisfied, stopped his efforts. He merely shucked off his raincoat and handed it to Enjolras, insisting that he put it on before falling into step with him, on the way to Enjolras’s apartment. 

_He had failed him. He had lain on that table in the upper room for the entirety of the barricade. And yet he was the one who stood with him – the drunk, the cynic. If Enjolras had taken a moment of thought at the time, he might have laughed. The irony… But he was grateful. Grateful that there was_ someone _(he had seen Combeferre stabbed and dead moments ago, Courfeyrac shot dead beside him), grateful for the suddenly blazing look on Grantaire’s face – quietly determined. And that exceptional feeling would have waylaid any laughter at the irony._

And the pain cracked through his skull again and he swayed. Then Grantaire’s arms were there. And suddenly, Enjolras’s fingers were tangled into his hair, drawing him closer, and then finding his mouth, taking it harshly. And Grantaire made some kind of noise in the back of his throat and pulled away, looking almost desperate. 

“The fuck?” he swore. “What the hell is wrong with you, Enjolras? Did you recently acquire a head injury?” 

“No,” Enjolras replied simply. He met Grantaire’s eyes – a stunning, soul-shattering blue – and was suddenly consumed with thoughts of rough hands and warm mouths and had to sigh and let his head drop onto Grantaire’s shoulder. 

And Grantaire’s hand cradled the back of his head as though it were a reflex. “You’re acting really strange,” he said, sounding a bit helpless, and Enjolras shifted a bit to look up at him.

“You’re probably right,” he sighed. “But I honestly feel more like myself right now than…ever.”

“I’d ask you if you were drunk,” Grantaire spoke as though he hadn’t heard him. “But I think I know the answer.”

“I think I like you,” Enjolras said musingly, to the side of his neck. 

“Thank you?” Grantaire made it a question, as though he found it hard to believe. 

“You’re welcome,” Enjolras replied. He was breathing in the leather of Grantaire’s jacket, pointedly ignoring the smell of whiskey coming off his skin. “I think I like you a lot.”

“Where is this _coming_ from?” Grantaire asked incredulously, stepping back to look Enjolras in the face. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the answer came easily enough, but Enjolras cringed when he heard it. It sounded so… _odd_ , even to his own ears. Grantaire stared at him as though he had recently sprouted a third arm. 

“What kind of deep shit have you gotten yourself into?”

“The nineteenth century,” Enjolras answered, a bit cheekily, before he realized how stupid it was and _Jesus_ he was having a problem with his words today. 

“Well… That sounds… Totally uplifting,” Grantaire said drily. 

“It was miserable, actually,” Enjolras said, and had to stop himself from smiling to himself like a maniac. 

“I have to get you home,” Grantaire huffed, before starting to move away. Enjolras made a sound of protest until Grantaire found his hand, threaded their fingers together. Then he let Grantaire pull him through the rain to his apartment. 

Were these _memories_? Enjolras wondered idly. They certainly felt something like memories. Like, something that had happened to him. Him and Grantaire (and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire and Bahorel and Feuilly and Bossuet and Joly). They were awful though, full of blood and death and grief, and without Grantaire’s hand in his, he felt like his head was about to split open. There was also a distinct burning feeling in his chest. It was tolerable, he thought, but irritating. 

And then Enjolras felt something digging into his pants pocket, and focused on Grantaire, who smiled sheepishly when he realized that Enjolras had noticed him. 

“Ah… You didn’t answer me and I asked for your keys twice. And I know you keep them in your left front pocket, so…” He pulled the keys out, letting them dangle in the air for a moment before turning and unlocking the door. Enjolras watched him without any real interest. He just liked the way Grantaire’s hands moved, the way his fingers were long and slender and stained with at least two different mediums. He liked Grantaire. 

He was led into his apartment, into his bedroom, and then onto his bed. Grantaire didn’t move to divest him of his clothing, Enjolras noted, and somewhere deep down, that bothered him…mostly because he had been picturing Grantaire naked for at least the past twenty minutes. Grantaire did pull his shoes off, though, (and he had to do it with one hand because Enjolras refused to give up his grip) and for that, Enjolras was grateful. 

“You need sleep,” Grantaire said, with some kind of inflection at the end making it sound almost like a question. Enjolras couldn’t decide whether to nod or not. 

“Lie down, close your eyes,” Grantaire said after several seconds of hesitation. “I’m just going to go and call Combeferre-”

“No,” Enjolras said, too loudly, and Grantaire was looking at him warily. “I just-I… I need you to stay with me.”

And Grantaire paused a moment before nodding. “On the bed?” he asked quietly.

Enjolras fixed him with a look. “No, on the floor,” he said sarcastically. And then, using the hand he still held, he pulled Grantaire down, into bed with him. Grantaire toed off his shoes before sliding up and taking his place on the right side of the bed. Enjolras (in a moment of pure madness, he’d call it tomorrow) nuzzled into him, until he wrapped his arms around him. 

“What are you doing?” Grantaire said sounding bewildered. 

“Getting comfortable. You’re wet,” Enjolras said plaintively. 

“You made me stand in the rain for ten minutes,” Grantaire sighed, and began rubbing gentle circles into Enjolras’s back. 

Enjolras hummed a little in the back of his throat before pressing his face into Grantaire’s neck and letting sleep overtake him.


	2. Combeferre is a Smart Ass (and Grantaire is a Hard Sell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically Enjolras has a nice long conversation with his best friend about everything that's going on. And then he asks Grantaire a very important question. 
> 
> And then they are late for dinner, but that is beside the point.

“Enjolras?” the word found him in his dreams and pulled him to the surface. He gasped to wakefulness like a man emerging from the sea. 

Combeferre quirked an eyebrow at him. “Drama queen,” he muttered, with a smile, and Enjolras groaned at the pain in his head. 

“Where’s Grantaire?” he asked, as Combeferre removed his glasses, polishing them on his shirt hem. 

“He went home. To his own apartment,” he supplied, without looking up.

“Is he coming back?” Enjolras asked, with surprising fervor. Combeferre met his eyes in mild surprise. 

“He said he might be back at some point,” he replied. He replaced his glasses, pushing them up his nose. “Now will you please explain to me why Grantaire seemed absolutely convinced that you were ‘absolutely batshit – out of your mind’ yesterday evening.” And he slid onto the bed, settling right next to Enjolras. 

“I think I had a bad dream,” Enjolras replied, lamely. 

“In the middle of a lecture?” Combeferre asked, smiling lazily. “You hardly sleep in bed, Enjolras.”

Enjolras sighed, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Did you ever…remember something?” he found himself asking, slowly, his mouth forming each word carefully. “Something that didn’t necessarily happen to you? Something…that-”

“Memories that aren’t memories, you mean,” Combeferre said. Enjolras looked over to find his friend’s face smooth, blank, gray eyes trained attentively on his face. And Enjolras’s chest felt hallow as the similarity between that expression _and another one, pointed to the sky on the face of a man, bayoneted and dead_. 

Enjolras breathed out shakily as he answered. “Exactly that, actually.”

“Hmmm,” Combeferre hummed, his controlled mask fraying a bit at the edges. 

“I’ve lost it haven’t I?” Enjolras asked, seriously, but his words were run over. 

“You watched me die, didn’t you?” The words came quickly, like whiplash, and Combeferre looked completely convinced that he needed to take them back. Until Enjolras met his gaze, and answered quickly. 

“Yes.”

And then Combeferre practically attacked him in a hug, pushing him back down onto the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he was saying, quietly, over and over. And as Enjolras returned his embrace, he found himself asking, “For what?”

Combeferre pulled back a bit, to look his friend in the eyes. “For leaving you to die alone.” 

And Enjolras shook his head, uncomprehending. “I didn’t… I didn’t die alone.”

Combeferre’s face fell pensive, and Enjolras knew better than to interrupt his thought. His friend breathed quietly for a moment before his features seemed to light from behind, a near grin on his face. “Grantaire then? Grantaire… He died with you?”

Enjolras nodded, slightly befuddled. “Yes. How did you-?”

Combeferre waved him away. “Logical deduction – he was the only one left. He came through for you? I told you he believed.” And the grin on his face was more genuine than Enjolras had ever seen in this lifetime. 

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “Yes, but not in what we were trying to do. He believed in _me_.” And the words warmed Enjolras from within. He sighed a little and tried to push the feeling down. 

“It was enough wasn’t it, in the end?” Combeferre smiled. “In the end, he stood with you, he professed these beliefs. He professed belief in the Republic because it _was_ what he wanted, even if he thought we would never achieve it. You were the only being who even had a hope of convincing him it was possible – and even you couldn’t do that. And then he stood with you… I’ll bet you even smiled.” 

Enjolras shook his head, a helpless smile on his face. “How do you know that?” he asked and Combeferre laughed. 

“I know _you_. It’s an easy enough deduction,” Combeferre said. Then he met Enjolras’s gaze and smiled gently. “You spent the entirety of your acquaintance back then looking for something in him that you could think of positively. You wanted so badly to look at him and see the good things you could see in all of us – the things that his alcoholism so often shaded from your view. You expect me to believe that the moment you finally saw all these things you didn’t smile at him like you wished you could have all along?”

Enjolras sighed a little, looking at his friend. “You’re remarkable, you know that?” 

And Combeferre arched and eyebrow and rolled off of Enjolras (their entire exchange thus far had been spent in a post attack-hug daze, Combeferre propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at Enjolras), back to his own side of the bed. “I don’t know about that. I’m not Feuilly, you know.” And then Enjolras was laughing. 

Laughing, at least, until the pain in his head spiked and he shouted a bit, startling his friend. 

“Are you alright?” Combeferre said softly, inching closer and looking Enjolras in the eye. His shoulder brushed Enjolras’s and the pain was deadened just a bit, but it was nothing like holding Grantaire’s hand. When Grantaire was there, the pain went away completely. 

“Ah, I forgot about this,” Combeferre said softly. 

“Forgot about what?” Enjolras asked. He twisted around a bit, to look his friend in the eye. 

“The pain. It comes with the memories,” Combeferre said. “It fades several days out, but for a while you’ll have a nasty headache.”

Enjolras stopped for a moment, suddenly struck with something. “You went through this,” he stated. 

“Yes,” Combeferre said, nodding. “Very astute.”

Enjolras ignored his sarcasm. “ _When_ did you go through this?”

Combeferre smiled, just a bit. “Sophomore year of high school. You remember that week I was out of school?”

Enjolras was a second away from shaking his head – _of course he didn’t remember_ – but then he did. It was probably the worst week of high school on the whole. He had never had to go a week without Combeferre _ever _. And that week had taught him that he would never want to. “You wouldn’t answer my phone calls."__

“The doctors thought it was some kind of concussion – how they came to that conclusion, I have _no idea_ – and told my mother that I basically had to be put in a dark room with no distractions for a week,” Combeferre said, lazily. “It would have been the most terrifyingly boring week of my life if it weren’t for the memories."

“What…brought it on?” Enjolras asked. And Combeferre smiled, seemingly to himself.

“This is going to sound ridiculous,” he sighed, but then he met Enjolras’s eyes. “You remember that football match? We played your half-brother? You were ruthless because you honestly _hated_ that your father had cheated on you mother and that the product of that cheating was _right there_ – that was what had happened. It was almost like the universe was rubbing it in your face. I tried to calm you down, but you kept on anyway. It just…triggered something."

And Enjolras remembered… _He was young, intrepid, this man of the artillery. Enjolras had been assured of that. But he knew that he had to pull the trigger. He had to. In the name of the Republic. And over his friend’s protestations, (‘He might be your brother.’ ‘He is.’) he did. There was a bang, a flash, and as a spring of blood spurted from the other man’s chest, Enjolras shed a single tear._

_There was no glory in killing._

“Ah… That,” Enjolras said quietly. And then pinched the bridge of his nose as a pain cleaved his sinuses.

“Yes, that,” Combeferre said. And then he took his friend’s hand gently. When Enjolras looked over, he just smiled blithely. “I’ve heard it helps with the pain.”

Enjolras nodded. “It does.”

“I’m guessing Grantaire is better,” Combeferre said, his smile still in place. “But I’m what you’ve got right now, so…”

“I don’t know why he’s better…” Enjolras mumbled, rubbing his thumb over the back of Combeferre’s hand. Combeferre laughed. 

“It probably has something to do with how you died,” he said gently, squeezing Enjolras’s hand. “You died holding his hand. When this happened to me, sure, the pain got better when you came over at the end of the week, and we watched History Channel. But what really made it _better_ was the sky.”

“The sky?” Enjolras asked, dumbfounded. 

“That’s how I died, Enjolras,” Combeferre sighed. “Looking at the sky.”

“Oh,” Enjolras murmured, nodding. “Appropriate.”

He didn’t see so much as feel Combeferre smile. They lapsed into companionable silence. 

It must have been half an hour later when Enjolras finally spoke again, quietly. “Who else remembers?”

Combeferre cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up his nose with his free hand. “Ah… Jehan. Feuilly. Courfeyrac has bits and pieces, I think. Bossuet. But not Joly. And neither of them have any idea where their… Musichetta is-"

“Musichetta?” Enjolras asked, looking confused.

“They shared a mistress…before,” Combeferre said, looking at him.

“Is that it?” he asked quietly.

“I believe so. Marius has absolutely no idea. And nobody… Nobody’s found Bahorel yet,” he sighed. “And Grantaire doesn’t know.”

“Grantaire doesn’t know,” Enjolras repeated. 

“Not a bit,” he said quietly. “Although, judging by what I have observed, he’s much the same in this life as in the other.”

“As am I,” Enjolras said strongly. 

He saw Combeferre smile fondly as he nodded. “As are you.”

They lapsed once more into comfortable silence. And Enjolras found himself thinking about this – this comfort. In two lifetimes he’d never found it quite like this. Combeferre, perhaps, was special. 

There was a knock on the door and Combeferre relinquished his hand for a moment, moving towards the door, before stopping and smiling with a cocked eyebrow when Enjolras made a noise in protestation. 

“It’s probably Grantaire,” Combeferre said quietly. “Do you want your human cure back?”

And Enjolras must’ve smiled in the most embarrassing way, because Combeferre laughed out loud all the way to the front door.

“Is he alive?” came the rough voice from the doorway.

“No, I let his life forces slowly peter out in your absence.” And Enjolras had to snort at the dryness in Combeferre’s voice. “He’s fine Grantaire. Just inside the bedroom.”

And when Grantaire made it into the room, Enjolras sat up straight, meeting his confused look with what he hoped was a relaxed smile. Grantaire was still looking at him strangely, so he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

“How are you feeling?” Grantaire asked lowly. And Enjolras must’ve looked unsure for just a second before attempting an answer, as within the next minute, Grantaire was on the bed next to him, grasping for his hand. Enjolras found his fingers with his own and sighed a bit as they connected.

Holding Combeferre’s hand may have helped a bit, but _this_ was like morphine. Except it left him alert enough to feel the calluses spotting Grantaire’s palm.

“How’d you get these?” Enjolras asked. And then he paused, suddenly afraid it was too personal a question. What the hell had gotten into him? Two days ago he wouldn’t have even cared. 

Although, two days ago he didn’t look up at Grantaire and remember the quietly determined face he’d had moments before he died. Died next to Enjolras. Died _holding Enjolras’s hand_. 

Enjolras tightened his grip and looked up, waiting for Grantaire’s answer.

“I’m an art student, Enjolras,” he said gently, “and I work landscaping in the summers.” And he was smiling gently and Enjolras’s stomach fluttered and he hated himself a little while at the same time being exasperated at this hatred because, really, what good was it doing? So, he might be a little bit in love with Grantaire. What of it? Really, it was nothing he could help.

He had been quiet so long that Grantaire was worried. He turned to Combeferre, who was watching them from the doorway. “Are you sure he’s okay?”

“Positive, Grantaire,” Combeferre said gently, moving forward. “I think he’s still just a little off.”

“No, really?” Grantaire said sarcastically. Combeferre gave him a dry smile, a clap on the shoulder. 

“He did admit that having you here makes you feel better,” Combeferre shrugged. “I’m not sure what that means, entirely, but-”

“Holding your hand makes the pain stop,” Enjolras said. He hated beating around the bush. Why not be straightforward? Generally it makes everything _much_ easier.

“Holding… _my_ hand?” Grantaire asked, his brow furrowing. He looked at Enjolras. “You sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Positive.”

Grantaire shrugged, trying and failing to look nonchalant. In one fluid motion, Enjolras pulled him down onto the bed. Combeferre smiled as Grantaire righted himself, sitting on the edge of the bed, his entire side against Enjolras. Their hands were still entwined.

“You don’t object to staying here and looking after him for a bit, do you?” Combeferre asked. 

Grantaire looked up at him. “Is he really that out of it?”

Combeferre shrugged. “No.”

“But I would prefer if you were here,” Enjolras said simply, offering a slight nod when Grantaire’s eyes widened in his direction. The man seemed about thirty seconds away from asking if he was dreaming.

“I mean… I just…have class,” Grantaire said slowly, looking at a loss.

“As do I,” Enjolras said. “I wouldn’t let my problems interfere with your studies, Grantaire.” And Enjolras could feel himself blushing.

“Well… That’s good,” Grantaire said without meeting Enjolras’s eyes.

“Is that settled then?” Combeferre said slowly, unsure. He had an eyebrow cocked over his glasses. 

“I’ll be his human painkiller, sure,” Grantaire said shrugging. His face tinged slightly pink. Combeferre smiled a bit then, nodding at them.

“All right. Cool,” he said. “I have a class now, but do you both want to meet up at the Thai place down the road for dinner? Around 7? I don’t have anything to do this evening.”

“Me neither,” Enjolras said, Grantaire echoing him unintentionally, halfway through the statement. They met each other’s gaze for a moment before turning away, both of them blushing.

Combeferre shook his head, smiling, muttering something under his breath. Then he spoke up: “I’ll see you both later then.” And with one last smile thrown over his shoulder, accompanied by a wave, he was gone. 

“This…” Grantaire started to say. And Enjolras just moved, pulling him down so they lay on the bed together, face to face.

“What?” Enjolras said, meeting his gaze, seeing trepidation in the depths of Grantaire’s eyes. 

“What’s…going on?” Grantaire said slowly, in a brittle tone. And Enjolras took a deep breath.

“You know… I’m not completely sure?” he said, a smile playing about his lips. “I think… I just finally saw you, or something…” _I remembered how you looked when you truly believed. It was the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen_.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Grantaire said quietly.

Enjolras sighed, and brought his free hand up to trace gently fingers over Grantaire’s features. The other man held still, his face shading astonished as Enjolras moved. 

“Is this really so hard to believe for you?” Enjolras sighed.

“Yes,” Grantaire said quietly. 

“I wish it wasn’t,” Enjolras replied.

And then they lapsed into silence, not so comfortable as Enjolras and Combeferre’s silence, but nice enough in it’s own right.

“You know,” Enjolras said quietly, “I really do feel better when you’re around.”

“Only since yesterday,” Grantaire replied, his brow furrowed. Enjolras sighed.

“Yes. Yesterday,” he said, a little more sharply than he had probably intended. “I told you, I finally _saw you_.” Grantaire snorted.

“What does that even mean?” he asked.

“It means that I’d like to see you more, if that’s okay,” Enjolras said, shrugging. “On a semi-regular basis… Where, you know, we go out and do things together.”

And now Grantaire was frozen, staring.

“Is this my rejection?” Enjolras asked, clearing his throat a little uncomfortably. Grantaire was staring at him.

“Did you just ask me out?” Grantaire finally asked, sounding a little breathless. “What the fuck?”

“I can’t tell if that’s a yes or a no,” Enjolras said blandly. 

“Is this a joke?”

“I swear to God, Grantaire, when was the last time I _joked_?”

“So no?”

“Are you being intentionally difficult? Or…”

“You’re actually serious. You actually asked me out and you actually meant it.”

“Willful misunderstanding will-”

“This isn’t willful, Enjolras, I swear,” Grantaire said, his free hand coming up and drawing gentle fingertips down Enjolras’s jaw. “I just…you have to understand that this is difficult for me to believe.”

“Is this a yes?” Enjolras asked.

“Yes, it’s a yes,” Grantaire said quietly. “We’re going to have the most fucked up relationship in the history of the universe.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras said, but he couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips.

“But you’re the one who told me, just two weeks ago, that I _couldn’t_ shut up,” Grantaire said. His smile was confident, but his eyes were nervous. Hesitant fingers traced down Enjolras’s side, rested on his waist. Enjolras shivered a little at the touch.

“I did, didn’t I?” he asked. He tried to remember it, but it was hard to remember a single instance where Grantaire’s languorous speeches against his ideals irritated him – because now he had two lifetimes full of those moments.

“You did,” Grantaire said.

“I’d tell you I didn’t mean it…"

“But you don’t lie. And don’t worry – I wasn’t offended."

“Good… I don’t mean to… I’m sorry if I’ve ever-”

“Don’t apologize to me – I deserved it.” 

And again they lapsed into silence. Then, suddenly:

“So, we’re in a relationship now?” Grantaire asked, still looking slightly incredulous. Enjolras didn’t quite understand what was so hard to believe.

“Yes. We are,” he said. And, keeping their hands twined between them, Enjolras leaned forward and pressed their mouths together – rough and new and brilliant. And it was nothing like he could have imagined and better than he ever could have thought. And when he pulled away, he smiled at Grantaire who, it seemed, couldn’t help but smile back.

And then Grantaire leaned in to kiss him again. And then they were late to dinner with Combeferre who assured them, once he had taken in their slightly disheveled appearances, that he was never going to let them live this down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely humans!! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Any questions, comments, or concerns, come talk to me here: http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com
> 
> I hope you have a wonderful day!!


	3. Grantaire Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later, Grantaire remembers. And Enjolras is so in love with him.

Enjolras waited five years for Grantaire to remember. They were, quite honestly, the best fucking years of his life. Lives. He didn’t care. He was happy and in love with a man who loved him _back_ and had for years. It didn’t matter that Grantaire didn’t remember his old life, when he had been miserable and drunk and had thought Enjolras _loathsome_. It didn’t matter, because Enjolras remembered. He loved him anyway - no, not _anyway_ – not _in spite of_. He just loved Grantaire. He’d take any miserable past lives as long as he got this man in this moment. 

Enjolras waited five years for Grantaire to remember. And then came the day – the singular day – that ended that waiting. 

He and Grantaire were prone to taking long walks after dates (especially lunch dates, as this had been), talking until they lost track of time and place and had to take a cab back to their apartment. This time, however, was different. 

This time, they had just finished a particularly nasty argument that left them both rather angry –he had even dropped Grantaire’s hand (which was a rare occurrence, as holding hands was one of Enjolras’s favorite things about being in a relationship). And in that moment of slight frustration, Enjolras registered his surroundings. And a slight smile found it’s way onto his face. He slotted a sly look sideways at Grantaire.

"You don’t have the sudden desire to play dominoes, do you?” Enjolras asked, smiling somewhat evilly. And he knew Grantaire was used to these jokes – jokes that were something like Enjolras’s inside jokes with himself. But this time, it was different. 

Enjolras kept walking, waiting for Grantaire’s quietly amused “What?” He paused after several seconds, when it didn’t come. And then he turned. And he knew that had done it. 

Grantaire was frozen, staring, a small choking sound coming from his throat. And Enjolras couldn’t help the rushing sensation that fought through his chest, pushing him forward. 

“O, Jesus,” he said lowly, worry seizing him. He grasped for Grantaire’s hand and was gratified by the other man’s relieved sigh. 

“The Barriere du Maine,” he said quietly. “Fuck.”

And Enjolras squeezed his hand, completely unsure of what to say, and watched with wide eyes as Grantaire’s expression became pained. 

“I-I…” he muttered, and then turned an expression of complete and utter loss on his and Enjolras’s clasped hands. Then his face seized in something that looked achingly close to utter terror and backed away, releasing Enjolras’s fingers as though they had burned him. He then immediately let out a pained shout, and fell to his knees, his head in his hands. Enjolras immediately dropped to his knees in front of him. 

“Grantaire?” he said quietly. He reached out a hand, ran his fingers over the back of Grantaire’s hand. The other man’s shoulders instantly relaxed. He looked at Enjolras through his fingers, eyes wide. 

“You,” he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. “You… We died.”

Enjolras gently took his hand and pried it from his face, twining their fingers again. Grantaire’s look of intense relief elicited a smile from him. 

“We did,” he agreed gently. 

“You-you were going to die,” he said, sounding desperate. “I saw you – they were going to shoot you. Y-you were going to die.” And then his hands were gripping Enjolras’s collar, insistent. “I-was it okay? I didn’t… Everyone else was dead. And you… I couldn’t watch you die. I couldn’t… I didn’t want to… I-I…”

He was incoherent and close to tears and Enjolras put an arm around him and pulled him into an embrace. He didn’t say anything, just let Grantaire breathe for a moment, while he rested his hand on his nape. Then Grantaire pulled back, seemingly desperate to meet his eyes. 

“Was it okay? To die with you like that? I-I’m sorry… I couldn’t just watch you die. I c-couldn’t… I didn’t want to live…in a world where you weren’t. I just…not that…” he said, and he looked in agony. 

Enjolras was rather at a loss, but he put a hand on Grantaire’s face and smiled, trying to be reassuring. “It was more than fine, Grantaire. Better than fine,” he said gently. And then he placed a gentle kiss on the other man’s forehead and pulled him in for another embrace. And this time, Grantaire returned it, his hands finding their way up Enjolras’s back, pulling him to him. He sighed, dropping his head onto Enjolras’s shoulder, his nose pressed against his neck. 

“We should get you home,” Enjolras eventually whispered. 

“Don’t you have work?” Grantaire said, a little breathlessly, in return. And Enjolras shrugged. 

“Combeferre can cover for me,” he said gently, and then stood, reaching out a hand, which Grantaire took gratefully, and then used to pull himself up. The moment he was on his feet, Enjolras began gently pulling him towards home. 

“O, God, you remember too then?” Grantaire asked from behind him. Enjolras paused and waited until Grantaire was level with him, until they were looking into each other’s eyes, before speaking. 

“Yes,” he said lowly. And Grantaire looked down at the sidewalk, desperation flooding his eyes. 

“You’re…you’re still here,” he said. Enjolras had to reach up, nudge his boyfriend’s chin before he would look at him again. 

“Of course I’m still here,” he whispered. And Grantaire looked away again, took a deep, shaky breath. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Grantaire’s laugh was humorless. “You have two lifetimes of memories of me being awful. You have to _ask_?” And Enjolras slid his hands up, cradled Grantaire’s face between them. 

“I _love_ you,” Enjolras said, and wished Grantaire would just believe him, wished it was easy. But it wasn’t. It never would be. Everything he loved, he had to fight for. “I love you so much. You were awful, but so was I. Can you just… After two lifetimes of being awful, we still manage to love each other. Think about _that_.”

Grantaire finally looked at him again. “I’ve loved you _forever_.”

“And I love you _irrevocably_ ,” Enjolras replied. Grantaire closed his eyes. 

“You understand that I find that hard to believe?” Grantaire said. And Enjolras sighed, leaned his forehead against his boyfriend’s. This was just as it had been in the beginning. He hummed a bit, sadly, running a thumb along Grantaire’s cheekbone. 

“I do. I don’t understand why, but I understand that it is what you feel,” Enjolras murmured. 

Grantaire sighed. “Thank you.” And Enjolras only nodded before pressing lips to his temple and then pulling him the rest of the way towards home. 

The moment the door to their apartment closed, Grantaire was suddenly in front of him, hands on his shoulders, eyes pleading. “This… Jesus, how have we made this work? I-”

Enjolras sealed a hand over his mouth then, a frown marring his features. “We’ve made this work we were meant to. I love you _so fucking much_ and I have been assured on multiple occasions that you feel the same. And judging from the last moments of our past lives,” and, at Grantaire’s wince, he ran his hand down his throat, resting a thumb against his pulse point and smiled gently, “we were meant to be together, in the end.” 

Grantaire took a shaky breath. “You love me.” He sounded so uncertain. Enjolras ghosted his lips over his forehead before pulling back, offering a tentative smile.

“I do,” he sighed. And Grantaire looked down, a slight smile on his face. Enjolras watched as he took a deep breath. 

“I… I just…” And Enjolras pulled him forward, gently, by the shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. 

“I know,” he said lowly. “We used to have this conversation a lot.” 

Grantaire sighed, looking sheepish. “We did, didn’t we?” Enjolras could only nod. He stroked a thumb along Grantaire’s jaw and smiled. 

“I don’t mind. I’ll spend the rest of my life convincing you you’re worth it,” Enjolras said. “Because you _are_ worth it.” 

And Grantaire just shook his head, a slight smile back in place on his face. “I can’t believe this.” He seemed a second away from laughing. Something in his eyes looked as though he was restraining hysteria. “I must have done something fucking fantastic in a past life to-”

And then he froze, as though he had realized what he had said. Enjolras merely cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“You died,” he said softly. And Grantaire’s eyes held a question. 

“I died?” he asked. 

“You said you must have done something fucking fantastic in a past life to, I’m guessing, deserve this. And I said that you died.” His voice was measured, if only to keep down the sheer amount of emotion threatening to wreck it. This memory, out of the two lives he now had to keep sorted, still kept him awake most nights – playing it over and over until the details became fuzzy and he had to close his eyes. “You died, with me. You kept me from dying alone. You-” He was failing at keeping his voice level and he no longer cared. He extended his fingers and found Grantaire’s hand, entwining their fingers, applying gentle pressure. Grantaire looked down at their twined hands, his eyes wide. “You don’t even realize how fucking glorious you were right then. ‘Do you permit it?’ ‘Permets-tu?’ Those words can’t be just words to me anymore… They’re everything. I could speak an entire language with those words – ”

“You’d make it fucking fantastic too, wouldn’t you?” Grantaire said, his smile just a shade sad. 

“I’d try,” he said quickly. “You deserve fantastic. You deserve everything.”

Grantaire sighed. “You know… Part of me kind of believes you. And part of me…”

“Is depressed and French and dead,” Enjolras supplied. Grantaire cocked an amused eyebrow at him. “I know how this-this split personality thing is. I’ve been through it.”

And Grantaire put his hands on Enjolras’s shoulders. His eyes were adoring, and doubtful, and trying desperately not to worship. And Enjolras leaned forward and kissed him. Really kissed him, with his hands tracing up Grantaire’s sides and pulling him in while Grantaire’s hands went around to cup the back of his head. And Enjolras licked into Grantaire’s mouth insistently while his hands bunched up the fabric of his shirt, exposing the smooth, inked skin of his torso. 

And when Enjolras’s cool fingers found their way onto Grantaire’s skin, he gasped and froze, his hands coming down to grip Enjolras’s forearms. And Enjolras stopped immediately and looked at him, while he chewed his lip. 

Grantaire looked up at him, guiltily. “Look, you know I want to,” he started, and Enjolras nodded, confused. “But…tonight… I might kill myself for this in the morning, but I’m not sure that tonight is the best time. I don’t feel… Well, I feel like me – more like me than I thought I ever could – but I don’t feel completely like the me who has been comfortable with you loving him for almost 4 years…” And Enjolras stopped him with a soft kiss on the mouth. 

“I understand. Not tonight, then,” Enjolras said, smoothing his shirt back down before wrapping his arms around his chest and breathing deeply into his shoulder. “I’m so… _glad_ you’re here – all of you. I… I rather missed the irritating drunk who argued the right to breathe with me back, two hundred years ago.” 

“I never went quite so far,” Grantaire said, amusement in his voice. But then he pressed his nose into Enjolras’s hair, breathing deeply. “And I’m just glad that you’re here at all.”

“There isn’t a place in the world – present or past – where I’d rather be,” Enjolras replied. 

“Not even 1848?” Grantaire asked, a smile in his voice. And Enjolras laughed a bit, turning his head and pressing his lips to Grantaire’s throat. 

“No, smart ass. Not even 1848,” he replied. “Although, based on my readings, the reforms enacted at that time had more negative effects, long term, than positive. It’s a shame, honestly. Can you imagine if I _had_ been there?”

“You would have had things running smoothly, I suppose,” Grantaire mused softly. “You would have worked yourself into the ground, just to make sure nothing went to shit.”

“Ah, come on, Grantaire. You think with myself, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac on the job, anything could have gone to shit?” Grantaire smiled at that, tucking his face into Enjolras’s neck. 

And then they stood in the doorway for a moment, cloaked in comfortable silence, embracing so tightly it was almost as though they were afraid of losing each other. 

“So… Do you want to watch a movie?” Grantaire asked eventually, pulling away and looking sheepish. “Since I won’t be sleeping with you this evening.” 

And Enjolras smiled gently. “That’s more than okay, Grantaire. Stop apologizing. And I would love to watch a movie with you.” And then he pulled Grantaire with him to the couch. 

And that’s how they ended up on the couch, asleep and twined together three hours later, the muted music of an action film playing in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right. There will be smut in the next chapter. I just have to write it. 
> 
> Also, it's not mentioned, but they did find Bahorel. It was a joyous affair involving a peacock, Las Vegas, and a lot of alcohol. He was just really happy to find them and not be the only asshole on the whole strip with some kind of freaky French memories. 
> 
> One more chapter to go!! Wheee!! I hope you like this. Have a wonderful evening. :)


	4. Love for You Is My Universal Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loving Enjolras is Grantaire's universal truth.   
> And then they make passionate love on the couch.

Enjolras spent two weeks watching Grantaire come back to himself, holding his hand to ward off the pain. But not even Enjolras could keep the consternation from his brow, the utter confusion from his eyes. It had been confusing enough for Enjolras – when he had merely to reconcile his past with his present. Grantaire was faced with the enormous task of reconciling both of his lives, as well as Enjolras in both of his lives. His love of Enjolras in both of his lives. There were moments when he met Grantaire’s gaze only to find the other man’s eyes a turmoil of conflicting emotions. 

In those moments, sympathy ripped through Enjolras’s chest, along with a helplessness he hated. He always covered Grantaire’s hand with his, frustrated with the fact that he could do nothing more.

Until, one morning, about a month later, he was typing away on his laptop when Grantaire basically came over, smelling of coffee, and draped himself over Enjolras’s side. Enjolras grunted a bit, shifting his laptop to keep his document in view. 

“Grantaire,” he sighed, sounding somewhat exasperated, even to his own ears. And Grantaire laughed. 

“O, c’mon Enjolras,” he hummed slightly into his ear. “You love me,” he whispered, against Enjolras’s neck. 

Enjolras pretended he didn’t like it. Enjolras pretended the shiver that ran down his spine was completely voluntary. Because, as much as Grantaire liked contact, they hadn’t done anything for a month. And Enjolras, as much as he wanted to, hadn’t pushed. 

“Of course I love you,” he said lowly. 

“And I know that look in your eyes,” Grantaire said, casting his arms about Enjolras’s shoulders, dropping a kiss to his throat. “You want me.” He said it so low and in such a _filthy_ tone, that Enjolras had to take a deep breath to keep the blood in his head and away from his – 

“You have divine self-control, you know that?” Grantaire said suddenly. “A month and a half ago, you would have let me have you on this couch by now.” 

And Enjolras separated from him enough to meet his eyes. “A month and a half ago you weren’t…”

“I wasn’t caught somewhere between a 26 year old, desperately in love with this _incredible_ man who claims to be just as desperate about me in return, and a nearly 200 year old miserable drunk man in more than desperate and insane love with a man who…back then you saw me for what I was and abhorred me. I can hardly blame you,” Grantaire mused. 

“You… I don’t like when you talk that way,” Enjolras said, setting his laptop aside. He shifted, facing Grantaire, taking his hand in his. “And, on top of that, you’re lying. I didn’t see you for what you truly were – not until the very end, anyway. And you…were fantastic. You are fantastic. Even when you were being tragically nihilistic spouting allusions to the Greeks in support of your dissent of my cause.” 

“I do know quite a bit about the Greeks, don’t I?” Grantaire murmured, grinning. “And I do disagree with you. Still. I was just…better at arguing with you back then. I was more eloquent, even as I rambled. But then those were the days of words…” 

“You seem pretty eloquent now,” Enjolras replied. And Grantaire leaned forward, Enjolras meeting him halfway with a gentle touch of lips that quickly progressed to Grantaire asserting himself, licking into Enjolras’s mouth fervently. 

“That’s because I have come to a median, Enjolras,” he whispered, against Enjolras’s lips, parted, red, inviting. “I have come to myself, to both of my selves, and I have become a new being, a man with a renewed soul, so to say. And _I still want you_. I still _love_ you. That is the only universal truth I have, it seems. The moment I realized that… Was the moment I came to realize that I have never stopped being…this. For two hundred years, my essence has been the same. It is the circumstances that have been different.” 

And Enjolras had to kiss him – this devastating man in front of him – to confirm that he was still real. Because no Grantaire that he had ever known had spoken quite like this – with his cheeks flushed, his eyes ablaze, his lips a blushing pigment that commanded the heat to coil in Enjolras’s gut. 

“Circumstances?” he eventually asked, breathless. And Grantaire beamed at him. 

“My father – he was brilliant. But he accepted me for what I was – a bit dim with digits, but with a mind made for literature,” Grantaire sighed, leaning down, his forehead coming to rest at Enjolras’s collar bone. “He came to fencing, boxing matches. He adored me…wholeheartedly. And he was all I had. Until you. And, it seems, the army of friends that come with you.”

Enjolras smiled a bit, dropping a kiss to his hair. “Your father…before…was not like that?” he asked gently. 

“’My father always detested me because I could not understand mathematics. I understand only life and liberty,’” he said softly. “I quote myself.”

And Enjolras found himself wrapping his arms around Grantaire, holding him close, never wanting to let him go. His hair smelled of the shampoo they shared. His skin smelled of coffee, of leather, of _Grantaire_ and Enjolras loved him so much he was nearly ill with it. He wanted to hold Grantaire, to pull him close, to become him, to imbibe him, to mingle their souls and take away every pain Grantaire had ever felt. And Grantaire held him back. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispered in the shell of his ear. 

“I _love_ you,” Grantaire whispered in return. “I think it may have been the reason I found my way back. Death is a murky underworld… I had to fight to the light. When I did, it seems…I found you.” 

And Enjolras took a deep breath, relishing in the sweetness of the words. “And here I though Jehan was the poet.”

“My words are nothing like poetry. I claim no knowledge of that art,” Grantaire said, pulling back, meeting Enjolras’s eyes. “If I did, however, have any talent in that area… I fear it would sound entirely of you.”

“And how many of the great poets wrote stunningly of their true loves?” Enjolras replied, only half teasing. 

“There’s only one problem with that,” Grantaire said, giving Enjolras a look that was hard to divine. Some mixture of happy desire and desperate longing. Their mouths were but a breath apart. 

“What’s that?” Enjolras asked, his voice damn near a whisper.

“Enjolras,” and he heard the crack, the roughness in the voice as it came to his ears, “there are no words, in any language I have the minutest knowledge of, that could ever do you justice.” 

And then Enjolras’s hands came up and gripped Grantaire’s face with a feverish conviction, ghosting eager thumbs over cheekbones, before pulling him forward and into a desperate kiss. There was something in that kiss, as though it were something grand – the meeting of two souls separated by ideals, decades in an unfathomable underworld, the tragedy of death itself. And now they were together. Maybe the world wasn’t so bad after all. 

Grantaire separated after some moments, breathing deeply, his eyes glassy, his face flushed, linen pants not concealing anything, and ran gentle hands over Enjolras’s bare shoulders. “I love you more than you can comprehend.” 

And Enjolras almost had to laugh as he pulled him close once more. “I doubt that,” he whispered against Grantaire’s lips. He felt Grantaire’s smile as the man pushed him back against the couch cushions, covering his body with his own. Grantaire ran his hands, those fingers that were far too talented for their own good, up Enjolras’s arms, bringing his wrists together, holding them in one hand, caressing the other down his chest, pausing once, fingers circling a single nipple before tweaking it, causing Enjolras to cry out, before moving down to the drawstring on Enjolras’s pajama bottoms. 

“Are you sure about this?” Enjolras breathed out, as Grantaire bent to kiss his neck, his hand sliding underneath the waistband of Enjolras’s pajama pants. 

Grantaire paused for a moment. “More sure than I have been in either of my lives,” he almost growled. And then his hand brushed over Enjolras’s erection. And Enjolras’s entire body jerked. And Grantaire laughed lowly against his neck. If Enjolras had ever heard anything more arousing, he couldn’t recollect it. 

“You’re a-o, my God,” Enjolras moaned, as Grantaire chuckled, coming up to kiss him languorously on the mouth before releasing his wrists and moving down his chest, teasing with fingers and tongue until, with a vicious tug, he pulled Enjolras’s pajama pants down over his hips. Enjolras practically gasped and moaned at the same time. He hadn’t known that was possible. 

And then, with a wicked smile up at him, Grantaire then eyed his erect cock with interest before bobbing down and then, after one slow lick from the base to the tip, which left Enjolras slightly breathless, took nearly the entire length into his mouth. After five years of practice, he was obnoxiously good at this. Enjolras tried to tell him this, but with his mind as pleasure addled as it was, all that came out was something of a drawn out moan. 

Grantaire bobbed his head and Enjolras’s newly freed hands tangled themselves almost painfully into Grantaire’s hair. The heat was incredible and, _fuck_ , it had been a month and Enjolras wanted nothing more in this moment than to stay that way forever. But his orgasm was approaching faster than he though possible and he groaned a bit in frustration. 

“Grantaire, I – _Jesus_ ,” he keened, and suddenly there was stillness, and frigid air and everything was clearer but worse at the same time. And then he felt the warmth of skin on skin as Grantaire stretched upward, stubble scratching at Enjolras’s cheek as he leaned into his ear. 

“O, no,” he said, low and rasping and Enjolras’s breath caught. “You’re not allowed to come yet. O, no, not yet. Not until I fuck you into this couch. Not until I take you so far that you can’t remember any words but _my name_. Then…” And Enjolras caught his hair in hand and brought him around, kissing him so hard on the mouth that their teeth clacked together, and Enjolras couldn’t have cared less. 

“You like that?” Grantaire all but _purred_. And Enjolras growled, wrapping his legs around his waist. 

“Fuck you,” he said into Grantaire’s mouth. And Grantaire laughed, sounding slightly hysterical. 

“Not tonight, _Apollo_.” And Enjolras hated that nickname. And Grantaire knew that Enjolras hated it. He just used it to irritate him these days. Or because he knew, in these situations, anger just turned Enjolras on _more_. If that was possible. 

And then there were several desperate moments in which they desperately tried to divest each other of clothing. And then they were naked, one on top of the other, kissing like they would die otherwise. And then Enjolras bent to nip at Grantaire’s neck. When Grantaire’s breath caught he grinned against his pulse point. 

“You like that?” he said gently, trying for seductive. Based on the way Grantaire’s fingers were now gripping his shoulders violently, he succeeded. 

“I love you,” Grantaire replied. And then it was Enjolras’s turn to grin. 

“I love you too,” he said. “But you better fucking have lube.”

“Jesus, like we don’t have any in our bedroom,” Grantaire muttered, looking slightly wild, but still smiling. He reached a hand down towards his sweatpants, tucking a hand inside a pocket and drawing out a small tube. Enjolras sighed. 

“You are my favorite thing,” Enjolras said breathlessly, and Grantaire laughed, just as breathless. Then he hummed as he uncapped the lube, spread it generously on to his fingers, before running one of those fucking _fantastic_ fingers down over his hardened dick, over his balls, then against the sensitive skin in between them and the cleft in his ass. He shivered and Grantaire’s finger slid further before gently circling before pressing teasingly against his entrance. And Enjolras’s entire body tensed. 

“D-don’t-” he stuttered, reaching a certain level of incoherency. And at that, Grantaire’s finger pushed in. And Enjolras made some kind of whimpering sound as his fingers scrabbled against Grantaire’s skin. Especially when Grantaire crooked that single finger and sent a zing of electricity to every pore of Enjolras’s body. Enjolras moaned breathlessly. 

Grantaire pressed a kiss to the side of Enjolras’s neck as he slid a second finger in, scissoring them and watching Enjolras’s face as he did it. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, to the side of Enjolras’s neck and Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire, holding onto his neck as the two fingers inside him twisted, crooked, brushed his prostate and nearly had him coming then and there. And then there was a third finger and, _dear sweet holy fuck_ , he was either dying or this was possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him. Or not. He wasn’t really thinking coherently right now. 

And Enjolras moaned breathlessly again, sounding next to completely debauched. And Grantaire looked up at him, eyes wild, and removed his fingers. Enjolras made a sound of protest, and Grantaire shushed him gently, before slicking more lube onto his fingers and then administering it to his achingly hard cock, gasping a little at the contact. But then Enjolras’s hands were scrabbling at his waist and based on the look he bequeathed him, Grantaire just wanted to give him the world or something. It was ridiculous and beautiful and he positioned himself, with Enjolras’s legs taking the place of his restless hands, wrapped about his waist. And then, in one swift movement, Grantaire was groaning with the feeling of being sheathed within Enjolras’s tight heat. And then there was another pause, as Enjolras caught his gaze, his own hazy with something so incredibly debauched and loving and sexy. And Grantaire leaned forward and claimed his mouth as he pulled back a moment before thrusting back in and making Enjolras moan loudly into his mouth, gripping his shoulders in something of a death grip. And, as Grantaire did it again, he moaned in return, dropping his head to Enjolras’s collarbone. And then he thrust again and again and again, until Enjolras shouted his name, and only his name, and came with a spurt of warmth between them. He tensed, and Grantaire took in a breath as though he was dying before he was coming as well. And then he all but collapsed onto Enjolras’s chest, breathing hard. 

Enjolras lay there, shocked to the bone. He was sweaty, and covered in Grantaire and come and this was very possibly the most glorious he had ever felt. He looked down at his chest, pushing a mess of sweaty curls from Grantaire’s forehead, so that he could look at him. 

“You’re, very possibly, the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said lowly, and Grantaire turned a bit, nuzzling his nose gently against Enjolras’s stomach. 

“Likewise,” he said, sighing. And then he was sighing. “And we need a shower.”

Enjolras sighed as well. “I really don’t want to get up.”

“Neither do I,” Grantaire said. “But I also feel like we should nap or something. And such things are best done in our fantastic King Size bed.” And Enjolras tangled his hands in Grantaire’s hair, feeling completely sated and content and vaguely wanting to live in this moment forever. 

But then Grantaire shifted, pulling out and sitting up. Enjolras make a disappointed sound in the back of his throat before Grantaire was back, kissing him gently, twining their fingers. “C’mon,” he said gently, tugging at Enjolras’s hand and pulling him into a standing position. 

“I love you,” Enjolras said, once they were eye to eye. And Grantaire’s gaze softened, before he leaned forward and kissed him again. 

“I love you too,” he said. “I always have. Doesn’t mean you don’t need a shower. With me.” And then he wiggled his eyebrows. And Enjolras rolled his eyes as he allowed himself to be pulled to the bathroom. 

And when they were making out under the shower stream ten minutes later, Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to be anything but happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at smutfic, so please, be gentle. 
> 
> Also, I hope you enjoy it. :)


End file.
